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Title: Head First
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Mycroft
Rating: R
Length: 1185 words
Warnings/kinks/content: consensual Master/slave relationship, facials, anal sex, anal plugs
A/N: sequel to Analgesia, but can stand alone


This particular black car is different from the usual. There’s no Anthea, for one. A divider exists between the backseat and the front, for another. And perhaps most surprisingly (though really, you can never tell with Mycroft, John figures) is the fact that John is sitting with an anal plug and a significant amount of lubricant inside of his arse.

John wonders if it should concern him that he’s more worried about leaking lube onto the seat than he is about the fact that at some point this evening, Mycroft Holmes intends to fuck him.  John then admits to himself that his biggest worry is actually that Mycroft might change his mind, and decides to write sanity off as a lost cause.

For a large man, Mycroft can move about with all the noise of a cat. John is nearly startled out of his mental gymnastics by the man’s almost sudden appearance. Mycroft clicks the door shut. Already divested of his jacket, he’s casually undoing his cufflinks and folding his sleeves.

“John,” there’s not a hint of boredom or condescension in Mycroft’s tone, and, if John didn’t know any better, he’d describe Mycroft as nearly giddy. “I trust you’ve had a pleasant week?”

John shrugs, trying to feign casualness, and failing.

“And you’ve been diligent in your preparations?”

He means has John been ensuring that he’s ready to take a man’s cock up his arse for the first time in his life. It’s been surprisingly easy, practicing with all manner of devices, but suddenly the thought of actually being fucked makes John slightly sick to his stomach, and he can’t decipher if it’s more fear than lust. He has to clear his throat before answering in the affirmative.

“Excellent. Undress.”

John blinks. He’d imagined a few different scenarios, all involving a desk, or a desk-chair, or maybe even a very nice bed with sheets made from Egyptian cotton, but he would have guessed that backseat sex would be too uncouth for Mycroft.

“Now.” Mycroft’s inflection and volume are as even as ever, but John knows, implicitly, that disobedience is not an option. The word has also sent blood coursing straight to his cock. He fumbles with his clothes in the narrow space, and bites his lip to keep from cursing aloud.

Mycroft arranges him, as if he’s a table setting. It’s awkward, flat on his back with his knees drawn up to his chest. John still feels as if his stomach is tying itself into knots, but it’s more from anticipation than fear, now. He’s mesmerized by Mycroft slowly unknotting his tie.

“Wrists,” Mycroft commands, and John holds them up for him without stopping to consider what it’s going to mean. When Mycroft wraps his tie around them and ties a careful knot, John’s breath hitches in what he at first thinks is fear, but then quickly comes to realize is excitement.

The next several minutes are a bit of a haze, although there’s also a surprising amount of clarity. It’s startling, because, as Mycroft is seated fully inside of John, John is overcome with a sense of being devoured. Faintly, John considers that Mycroft gorging on him as if he’s a prime cut of steak should possibly offend him. The fact that it doesn’t is not as surprising as it probably should be.

As if reading his mind, Mycroft states, rather too casually, “this is exactly what you’re meant to be, John: a pretty object for me to thrust into.” As he says it he reaches a hand to John’s throat, stroking it mildly but firmly. Without thinking, John tips his head back to accommodate him, and somehow the stroking of his throat and the brushing of Mycroft’s considerable length against his prostate and those filthy words in that gorgeous voice, or maybe the no-longer-surprising reality that John heartily, desperately agrees with him, crash together to produce one of the most intense orgasms that John had ever experienced.

John comes all over his stomach, and Mycroft pulls out and deliberately marks him, sighing as he ejaculates all over John’s chest and his face. John doesn’t miss the desperation in Mycroft’s eyes, nor the fact that he himself is relishing this, which is surprising, but not as surprising as the fact that Mycroft manages to tuck himself in and straighten his clothes and look as if he’s done nothing more than gone for a pleasant stroll. The diet must be working.

Mycroft gets into the front of the car, and it occurs to John that Mycroft is the driver this evening. John is still sprawled on the backseat, a debauched mess, and so sated has absolutely no care for where they may be going or for anything else in the world.


When John wakes up, it’s with that fleeting sense of trepidation that comes in those first moments that one awakens in a strange place before the memory of the previous night returns. A new but already somewhat familiar scent makes him turn over. Mycroft is sitting up in bed beside him, wearing striped, silk pajamas that would look ridiculous on anyone else, and working on a tablet.

The memory of the previous night returns. Upon entering the house, Mycroft had veritably fussed over him, stroking him and bathing him and wrapping him in the Egyptian cotton sheets that had been the setting of John’s earlier fantasies. John finds himself craving more of any kind of touch Mycroft sees fit to give him, and he shifts to rest his head tentatively on Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft rewards him by stroking his hair, though he keeps his eyes on the tablet.

“I trust this means you consent to my proposition?”

John can read Mycroft’s tone, and there’s an allowance in it, one that indicates that John can take a moment to think on it. John remembers the terms clearly; nothing has to change, with the exception of two days out of each week, barring extenuating circumstances, that John will consent to enslaving himself to Mycroft, with the assurance that it will only concern sex.

The only twinge of misgiving that John feels concerns the fact that it’s only two days a week.

“Yes Sir.” It doesn’t even come out sounding breathy.

Mycroft’s fingers pause, but he doesn’t make eye contact. His tone is carefully neutral. “You trust dangerous people rather readily.”

“It’s not about trusting you, Sir.”

This time Mycroft does make eye contact, and there’s heat in his gaze. “Oh really?”

John can’t say it, that it’s because Mycroft doesn’t make him feel inferior, doesn’t make him feel ashamed about wanting to be fucked and used, so he settles for the simpler, more succinct explanation. “It’s about getting what I need.”

Mycroft’s gaze remains steady. “Very well then,” he finally replies. He returns to the tablet, shuts it down and slides out of bed, leaving the room. He returns sans tablet, but not empty-handed. John’s mouth goes dry as Mycroft sets the tote he’s carrying onto the bed and removes several toys. “We have the entire day ahead of us. With what shall we begin?”




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January 2016


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